Woo, chapter 2 finally up! Thanks to those who have read thus far, I really appreciate it. If you enjoy this chapter,. please consider a review, it would make my day to hear your thoughts. I'm suffering with vertigo at the moment and could use a cheer up! Also, incase it's not clear, italicized speech is inferred to be spoken Spanish.

The Sisters of Santa Philomena always rose early, greeting the day with morning prayer often before the sun rose. The daily litany would begin before breakfast was permitted, and a dozen or so veiled heads would bow in the chapel while the sky lightened, doing their best to ignore rumbling stomachs and stifled yawns. The only novitiate among them had to suppress a smile on this particular morning when the belly of the elder sister knelt in front of her practically growled. The younger woman pressed her clasped fingers firmly to her lips to hold her amusement in, reasoning with God in her wordless prayers that He surely had a sense of humour and would probably overlook her brief slip in concentration.

After prayers the shutters in the parts of the convent that were still used were opened to allow the morning light to flood in and breakfast of bread with salted tomato or fresh fruit with a great deal of freshly ground coffee was shared in the communal dining room. Once the nightly silence ended at seven a.m plans for daily chores and duties might be idly chatted about over the last dregs of coffee, along with the occasional piece of news from the outside world that might arrive by post. Then dishes were cleaned away, more prayers in chapel followed, and after the women would set about their work, the vast majority of their time invested in the maintenance of the secluded community's daily lives.

The novitiate was allowed a little more personal freedoms than the other women residing at Santa Philomena. Nothing ludicrous, of course. She was hardly wearing scarlet knickers under her vestments. But the Mother was softer on her than she needed to be, allowing her to choose her work duties rather than them simply being allocated, among other minor privileges, a fact the younger sister knew meant she was spoiled. Not all the places she'd lived had been so accommodating. But the Mother understood something as simple as being allowed to tend to the gardens and the convent's small flock of domesticated chickens made a large difference in the novice's happiness, the girl content to embrace gratitude and praise in her heart while she worked for the bounty of God's love in the growing things that sustained their little family of women. Every act should be made a prayer, after all.

This morning was no different to countless others she had spent since arriving at the convent; apron on, pocket in the front filled with feed, the novitiate made her way down the uneven steps from the convent's front door in the early light, eager clucking greeting her as several small, jet black birds with crimson crests bolted across the courtyard to weave between her feet and peck at the hem of her habit. She smiled fondly at the demanding creatures, bidding them each good morning by name as she scattered handfuls of grain from the front of her apron. Once the brood was distracted by their breakfast she moved to search the nests hidden among the stones overgrown with moss and bracken that encircled the courtyard, looking for eggs. High enough in the hills here that foxes and dogs were no threat, the convent occupants had never bothered with coops, instead opting to let the chickens roost wherever they saw fit. That in turn gave way to the collection of eggs becoming a treasure hunt, something the young sister found amusement in as she dug through the brush and groped behind crumbling walls. This morning they had gifted the novice with eight fat, speckled prizes, carefully placed into the pocket where she'd previously stashed the feed to be carried back to the kitchen and turned into something hearty for supper.

Pleased with her haul and brushing her hands down the textured linen of her apron to clean them off, the girl was about to turn back to go inside when she froze, staring in astonishment at the base of the tree in the centre of the space. What lay beneath it was certainly no chicken…

Inching forwards, wary feet stepped soundlessly across the flagstones until she broached the shade of the old olive, brows arched, unblinking gaze peering down at the crumpled figure beneath it's bows. He was large, much larger than her, she could tell that even as he lay drawn into himself, and so fair that he could have been wrought from polished marble. As she stared a pained exhale from him made her jump, quickly asserting that he was in fact a living, breathing being, the novitiate's nervousness giving way to concern after a few more moments silent study. He did not seem at all well.

Swallowing the thick lump that the fear of the unknown had lodged in her throat, she sank to her knees on the cool slabs of stone beneath them, her gaze flickering over what was undoubtedly a troubled face even in sleep, deep shadows of some unknown hardship carved into porcelain features. Was he a tourist who had lost his way on the mountain? It wouldn't be the first time, not that she had ever seen an outsider since she had arrived to Philomena. She'd never so much as met the man who delivered the meat each month…

Moving slowly and with absolute care to not startle the sleeping stranger, the sister reached out and touched the back of her fingers to his brow, feeling for any obvious signs of fever or malaise. A fresh pang of pity seized her heart when he didn't so much as stir at the contact. He must have been weary down to the marrow of his bones.

The brief assessment revealed to the novice that the unknown visitor was in fact cool to the touch, chilled from his night in the open. Teeth grazing her lower lip, she moved her hand to lay it on his shoulder next and gave it the gentlest of squeezes, the closest she was willing to do to shaking him awake. The joint beneath his pullover, (which was entirely inadequate for sleeping under the stars in her opinion), was solid under her fingers, unyielding to her half hearted attempts to rouse him. He was not only large but perhaps also very strong, despite his sorry appearance huddled beneath the tree. She lifted her hand away to instinctively curl her fingers around the small silver cross that rest just beneath her habit collar, contemplating what was the right thing to do.

"Where did you come from..?" The words were all but inaudible, a question more to the air than the sleeping man. He did not appear physically like any other person she had met in her sheltered life, but she knew her experience of others was very narrow. He was just a man, flesh and blood and soul, the same as her, and in this moment he appeared to be a vulnerable one. Biting her cheek, the sister's fingers tightened around the cross pendant and immediately her prayers on what to do seemed to be answered, the thought popping into her head in her own voice clear as day in her mind; You have been taught charity…

As silently as she had knelt the novitiate pushed herself to her feet and quickly moved back across the patio, breaking into a run once she was up the first set of steps while hoping the Mother would not see her, her habit clutched up in one hand to keep from tripping over the hem. Skittering into the kitchen, she deposited the eggs and the apron on the table, then began putting a rushed plate together, praying that God might overlook her sin of stealing as it was to feed another...

It was the ghost's own breathing that woke him. After a few hours deep, dreamless sleep, exhaustion gave way enough to pain that the piercing under his ribs each time he inhaled slowly brought him forth to consciousness. He kept his eyes closed, trying to hold onto the blissful emptiness of sleep for a little longer, but to no avail. Gradually his other senses came to, forcing him back to reality and the predicament he had found himself in the night before. He became aware of the hardness of the stone beneath him, how pressure points in his shoulder and hip ached from the solid ground that had been his mattress. There was the scent of the olive tree above him, the dirt below and wildflowers somewhere in between, the calls of songbirds wheeling overhead and-

He was warm.

Deeply uncomfortable in all other respects, yes, but warm…

Shifting a fraction, wary of moving too much lest he find himself at the mercy of some new adversary once it was clear he was awake, he felt the weight of the blanket that was strewn over his prone form move with him, the slight scratch of woven sheep wool skimming his neck.

Blanket.

He had been discovered.

His mind already tripping over itself trying to come up with escape scenarios from whatever unknown figure of law enforcement that had found him, the spectre opened wary eyes just a slit, trying to disguise the fact as he risked a glance out from beneath pale lashes, and fear gave way to the beginnings of confusion, then momentary awe. For a brief instant, with his mind still addled from the depths of weariness and all he had endured in getting to this place, the ghost thought he was witnessing a miraculous vision;

Before him a figure gleamed in golden light, rays spilling forth from it, it's whole being luminescent. It seemed to be kneeling, bowed head obscuring its features, but so very bright that it must be a heavenly apparition, it must be an angel, it-

The spectre's vision and mind gradually cleared and the brief rapture faded as the filters of half sleep lifted away. There was no saintly glow, no radiance from on high. Just the morning sun reflecting off of clean white cotton, it's wearer dressed from head to toe in the simple but unmistakable garb of a nun. She was knelt perhaps twenty feet away from where he was crumpled beneath the tree, head low and hands in her lap, the polished wooden beads of a rosary gradually passing through her fingers, entirely absorbed in her prayers.

The ghost watched her a while, long enough that she finished one decade and had started on the next. He couldn't make her out in much detail yet, between distance and the shadow of the light veil covering her head. Wisps of champagne blonde bangs peaked from beneath the soft, snowy material, hiding her eyes. Her hands were small, fingers slender, holding the rosary as if it were made of spun gold. Young hands but hard working, the backs of them chapped from her labours. Her habit was white in its entirety, a little more silent study noting the lack of starched cap or collar or pinafore. Still a novice…

The ghost felt a twist of regret as painful as any bullet as his mind threw back to the last woman of the cloth he had encountered. She would have been this way once, newly called to service, pious and prayerful as she came to God. How had it come to be that he had knelt with her blood staining his fingertips as he had administered the prayer commending her soul to Heaven, as if somehow that might negate the terrible deed he had just done? He had been so sure of himself, but immediately after the remorse had flooded him, and it returned now observing this unknown sister in her quiet devotions. Perhaps it was her phantom. Perhaps now she was without flesh too she was haunting him, his penance for ending her life…

Still too numbed by his own fatigue and the increasing strangeness of his current circumstances to move yet, pale blue eyes gradually became aware of something else in their periphery. Within arms reach there was a plate set on the flagstones, two hunks of bread lathered with some jam so sticky and rich it looked almost black set upon it, and beside that a tall glass of orange juice. Saliva pooled beneath his tongue. A ghost he may be, but a hungry one. He wasn't sure when he had last eaten. He still didn't move, though. Instead, he tore his gaze away from the temptation of sustenance and looked back to the praying figure, trying to understand what situation he had stumbled into on the vague instructions he'd been given to find shelter in the hills.

As if she could sense eyes on her the beads passing through the novice's hands became still and her head lifted a fraction, a flicker of eyes visible just for a moment before a hand lifted to cross herself. The spectre felt his chest tighten and his thighs tense, ready to bolt despite the throbbing pain he was in. His heart rate soared, panic setting in as the sister clipped her rosary back to her belt and her veiled head finally lifted properly to look at him. Breath held, several achingly long seconds went by as the two regarded one another across the courtyard. He was invisible no more.

"It's alright you're quite safe here."

The sister was the one to break the silence, her voice gentle across the courtyard. Her Spanish was accented, something slightly stiff in her pronunciation. Not a native speaker. The ghost did not say anything in reply. His jaw set, he pushed himself up through his elbow, struggling to sit, the blanket falling away. A low grunt escaped him unbidden as a searing bolt of sensation shot through his belly when he straightened and he immediately regretted the sound as he saw the novice move, swiftly pushing herself to her feet to stride across the flagstones and drop to her knees anew before him. The ghost avoided looking up at her, studying a crack in the paving stones instead as he heard her speak once more, the soft timbre of her voice clearer now she was close;

"Are you hurt? I can send for a doctor. Is there someone I could call for you? Family? Friends? Someone must be missing you…"

He twitched his head no. Nobody would be missing him. He had lost that last connection with the living world when Aringarosa had written that they would never speak again.

"Did you get lost?"

Lost. Oh yes. He was lost now, that was very true. Without purpose, without cause, without church or home-

The ghost was flinched out of his thoughts as he felt the alien sensation of another's skin on his, soft fingers gently prying his hand open to press the coolness of glass into his palm.

"Here. Drink. It's a long walk to get here. You'll be dehydrated."

Pulled out of his self pitying musings by the foreign touch of another, he finally looked up from the ground and into the face of this unknown Samaritan, pastel gaze met with one of deep, cornflower blue and full of warmth. The face looking down at him was heart shaped and smooth with youth, a crease of worry drawing brows together, nose dusted with freckles, cheeks coloured rose pink by the morning sunlight, cupid bow mouth small but soft with a tentative smile that was coloured by concern. It was not so much her features that struck the ghost; he had spent years trying to stop himself from being moved by physical loveliness, a baseless, facile way to measure a person's worth. It was the way she was looking at him. Doe eyes held his own steadily, compassion reflected back in her gaze, her expression open and without fear or judgement of him, and for a moment the ghost almost felt he had flesh again. He felt seen.

The novitiate's smile grew just a little as he looked up at her and with another gentle nudge of her fingers against his knuckles to coax him the glass of juice was lifted to his lips, the tangy nectar coating a grateful throat and washing away the sandpaper sensation in it as the sister drew her hand away and spoke once more;

"Do you know where you are?"

The glass was drained in its entirety and was set down on his thigh as he caught his breath, then there was a twitch of his head from one side to the other. The novice's brows lifted noticeably at the answer, a curious gleam in her eyes visible quicker than she could catch it.

"The hills are called Peñamayor. You're almost at the centre of them. This is the convent of the blessed saint, Philomena. You really don't know?"

The spectre blinked slowly at this, digesting the information more sluggishly than he would have liked. A convent. Was this the shelter he was supposed to have found, or merely a fortunate accident?

The plate of bread and fruit preserves was guided into his hands and the glass lifted away, the sister clutching it between both palms in her lap as she continued;

"Do you have a name?"

The ghost dropped her gaze. Stared in silence into the shine of the jam. Didn't eat. Didn't answer.

"Alright. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I wouldn't be so quick to trust a stranger either, even one in the habit."

There was the sound of another smile in her voice, though the spectre did not look up to see it

"My name is Bethany. There. Now I am not a stranger to you. You are safe here. Whatever has happened, we can help."

The ghost finally lifted his eyes to peer up at the novice kneeling before him, a fresh pang of discomfort and remorse causing a hard lump in his throat. He should tell her, tell her he didn't deserve any kindness, any safety, any charity from women of God after he had failed Him so spectacularly and completely-

"Betania! Entra ahora!"

The ghost fell back from the precipice of almost speaking as a new voice whipsnapped across the courtyard, the barked command having an immediate and jarring effect on the young woman in white. Eyes large, she pulled back from where she was knelt as though the ground burned her, hurriedly stepping back in a near stumble as she was apparently caught doing something wrong. Her head dropped to in a bow deep enough rest her chin on her chest, glass clutched tight in her fingers. There was a brief bob of her knees in a sort of half curtsey almost, before she turned to rush up the steps from the courtyard without casting her foundling charge another glance, the picture of contrition as the soft patter of feet faded away. As she fled, the ghost moved to tuck the plate of bread behind him, the old habit of hiding food that might be under threat dying hard from his days living wild on vicious streets.

The speaker stepped into sight around the olive tree once the the novitiate could no longer be heard, the source of the command revealed to be a much older woman, also in the habit but this time her veil was black and arranged over the stiff cap framing a face easily in it's sixties. The elder nun stood with her hands folded over her stomach to look down at the ghost with dark eyes that seemed to pierce right through him, an air of calm authority emanating from her. She seemed all at once slight and fragile and also as if the sharpness within her could cut anyone who crossed her in half. It was the air of someone who had absolute conviction in who she was and what was her purpose.

"You are Aringarosa's boy."

It was not a question. The ghost did not respond.

"I have been waiting for you."

The elder woman turned on her heel to start back across the patio, until she paused after a few feet to look back at the pale foundling still under the olive tree, his white face wary at what . The woman tut and lifted her voice once more, her tone that of a scolding mother;

"Well then, get yourself up. You can either come inside or go back down the mountain and try your luck in the city, but either way you cannot remain in our gardens distracting our Sisters. Make your choice, child. I shall not wait for you all day. The Lord's work does not pause, not even for you..."

The Abbess was not as gentle as his brief encounter with the novitiate. She led him into the convent, the spectre struggling some to keep up with her steps as he followed her, toting his meager duffle bag through low ceilinged corridors on the path to her offices. His weary mind did not take much note of his surroundings beyond the fact that they were blanketed in a hallowed quiet. He did not see any other faces.

In her offices the Abbess insisted he sat, but she stood, razor eyes fixed on him as she informed him cooly of what would become of him at the convent;

"You are here at the appeal of Bishop Aringarosa and God's mercy. I know more of you than I should like and less than I woutd choose, but it is not my place to make any judgement of you. You may stay only until you are healed, whereupon you shall be expected to find lodging elsewhere. I will assist you in finding a suitable monastery, if that is what you wish, providing you have conducted yourself in an appropriate manner while you are here. You will not converse with our sisters unless you are spoken to, ill or in need of some other assistance. You will not eat with them, sit with them or do anything which may distress or distract them. When you are well enough to do so, you will work. You will sleep when we sleep and pray when we pray. You will live humbly and ascetically while you are here. I understand you spent several years as a numeracy within Opus Dei so that should be no hardship for you. We will provide you with a bed, meals, medical care and as much protection from outside eyes as we can afford you. I trust that my expectations are clear…"

The ghost had merely nodded. Aringarosa had arranged this, Aringarosa still trying to save him, still trying to protect him from the cruelties of men and their laws… If the Bishop trusted this woman and her order then he would too. Aringarosa still had his loyalty, his love even, after all that had happened. Aringarosa was to be obeyed, more than ever now when he had no other identity.

He was given a cell in a part of the convent that smelled of damp and belonged more to spiders than the women of Philomena, that he could tell. There was a bed though, and a chest of drawers with a wash basin and jug set atop it, a wooden crucifix over the small clouded window that lit the room above the headboard. The bed was dressed with sheets that were pilled with age but bright white in their cleanliness and carried the scent of lemons. He was not surprised when he heard the Abbess lock the door behind him. He would not have trusted him to move freely in the convent either.

Despite the throbbing it caused in his abdomen, the ghost lowered himself to the floor and laid on his belly, forehead pressed to the cool stone, arms flung out to the sides to prostrate himself absolutely before the Lord as he prayed. He gave thanks for the room he was in, for the Abbess and her admittance of him, for Aringarosa in his endless kindness, still trying to give him shelter. He gave thanks for the pain of the surgery scars, reminding him that he was so blessed to still be alive and not yet in Hell's fire. He gave thanks for the novitiate with the glass of orange juice who was not afraid of him.

He prayed for forgiveness. For cleansing. For clarity. For the souls that he had dispatched from this world.

He prayed until he felt calm, the light through the milky glass of the window changing from morning to midday. Then he pushed himself from the ground, limbs stuff and muscles trembling as he moved to pour some water into the chipped china basin and pulled off his clothing, washing away sweat and dust and, he hoped, some of his shame. He scrubbed himself raw, stood naked in the air to dry. Picked at the dressings on his abdomen. They needed changing.

Lifting the duffle bag onto the bed the ghost unzipped it at last, rummaging through the contents. There was a ziplock stuffed with white tubs of medication, press on bandages, surgical tape. Beneath that layers of dark brown wool, the ghost's eyes burning as he drew out the clean monastic robes, clutching fistfuls of the fabric and burying his face in them. Aringarosa understood. Understood this was all he was...

The aching within him seemed to subside some when he pulled the robe over his white body, as if being in them once more was a balm physically and spiritually. There was a second set and some underwear that he carefully placed in the chest of drawers, and he was about to zip the bag when something in the bottom of it caught his eye.

The cilice glinted in the diffused sunlight as he lifted it eyelevel, the barbed loops draped over the back of his hand winking at him.

Aringarosa always understood.